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Caf. I an itching palm?
Bru. The name of Calius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head:
Cas. Chastisement !
th, as may be grasped thus ? 1 had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
Caf. Brutus, bay not me,
Caf: (15) You are net, Cafius.] See Mr. Warburton's note on the place; upon which Mr. Edwards in his Canons of Criticism, p. 93. obferves thus, “ If Mr. Warburton had not been giddy with his ideas of bravery, disinterestedness, philosophy, honour, and patriotism, which have nothing to do here, he would have seen, that Caffius is the vocative case, not the nominative ; and that Brutus does not mean to say, you are not an able foldier ; but he says, you are not an. abler than I; a point which it was far. from being beneath his character to infifton.
If the words, you are not Caffius, meant a new imputation on him for degeneracy, his mere denial of it is very flat, and Brutus replying to that denial, by a mere repetition of his former asertion, without adding any reason for it, is still worse ; whereas, if the words mean only a denial of what Caffius had just said, it is natural enough for each of them to maintain his ground, by a con
Caf. I am.
Caf. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself Have mind upon your health--tempt me no farther.
Bru. Away, flight man.
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Cas. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?
heart breaks ; Go shew
saves how cholerick you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch, Under your testy humour ? by the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Tho'it do split you. For, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are wafpich.
Caf. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier ;
fident assertion of the truth of his opinion. And that the su. periority of soldiership was the point of their dispute, is most manifestly evident; by Brutus' resuming it a little lower,
You say you are a better foldier, &c.
You wrong me ev'ry way; you wrong me, Brutus,
Did I say, better?
Bru. If you did, I care not
mov'd me. Bru. Peace, peace, you durft not so have tempted
Bru. You have done that, you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, That they pass by me, as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you deny'd me ; For I can raise no money by vile means ; By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, (16) than to
wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, By any indirection. I did fend To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me ; was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer'd Caius Caffius fo ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
(16) Than to wring, &c.] This inimitable paffage is not only highly in character, but as Mr. Warburton has observ’d, is most happily exprefled. To wring implies both to get unjustly, and to use force in getting : And bard hands fignify both the peasants great labour and pains in acquiring, and his great unwillingness to quit his hold.”
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Caf. I deny'd you not.
Caf. I did not he was but a fool,
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities,
Bru. I do not, 'till you practise them on me.
Casi. A friendly eye could never see such faults..
Bru. Sheath your dagger ;
Caf. Hath Caffius liv'd To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-temper'd vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
confess so much ? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too.
Embracing. Cas. O Brutus ! Biu, What's the matter? Caf. Have
you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour, which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you
Bru, O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
Caf. Of your philosophy you make no use,
Bru. No man bears forrow better--Porcia's dead,
Caf. How 'fcap'd I killing, when I croft you 0?
Bru. Impatient of my absence ;
Caf. And dy'd fo?
Enter boy with wine and tapers.